


Devil Like Me

by atetheredmind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, I tried anyway, Jon is an incubus, Or Is It?, demon Jon, i guess if you squint there could be dubious consent here, sex between them is implied but not described, so Daenerys x Daario is a thing, spooky scary, this is set in canon, this is still a Jonerys fic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 04:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16422449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atetheredmind/pseuds/atetheredmind
Summary: He always came to her in her dreams. A shifting shadow with a comely face, though she could never clearly see him, could never quite recall him after she awoke. She only remembered hooded eyes and a cruel, lush mouth; the pressure of him atop her and in between her legs, the pleasure winding tighter and tighter still. But without fail, the dream would end before she could find that promised release.





	Devil Like Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoseAlenko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAlenko/gifts), [LadyTarg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTarg/gifts).



> A little Halloween fic set in canon where Jon is an incubus. Lucky Dany!
> 
> I want to wish my friends RoseAlenko and LadyTarg a happy birthday this weekend! I'm so jealous you two have nearly-Halloween birthdays. You guys are the absolute best, so I hope you enjoy a little demon smut :)

* * *

 

He always came to her in her dreams.

A shifting shadow with a comely face, though she could never clearly see him, could never quite recall him after she awoke. She only remembered hooded eyes and a cruel, lush mouth; the pressure of him atop her and in between her legs, the pleasure winding tighter and tighter still. But without fail, the dream would end before she could find that promised release. Every time, she would jolt awake to find herself alone, unsatisfied, and with no recourse but to relieve herself.

The dreams had started soon after Khal Drogo’s death. She was a newly widowed woman who’d lost her husband and her child, trying to navigate Qarth and all its trickery and deceits. She assumed the dreams were born of her frustration and grief—a simple longing for another person’s touch.

Once the Sons of the Harpy had launched their shadow war on her in Meereen, the dreams stopped. In those times, when she would lie down at night wrought with anger and doubt and fear, the base pleasures of sex were the last thing on her mind. Those nights, if she managed to sleep at all, it was the horrors of war that woke her and left her shaking in a puddle of her own sweat. Her shadowed lover was a fading memory then, just the silly fancy of a lonely girl.

Not until she invited the sellsword Daario Naharis into her bed did her shadowed lover return.

This time he did not come to her amongst her plush feather bed; he merely watched her from the corner of the room, cloaked in the night. Yet despite the shadows she could make out the whiskered beard stippling his strong jaw, the curly hair that curtained his face. His eyes glowed blood-red, stalking her where she slept. Hunting her. As if she were his prey.

With a gasp, Dany lurched up in her bed, but he was gone. The corner was empty, just dirt and dust and brick in the faint light of the brazier. She looked to her right and found Daario sleeping peacefully at her side. Unsettled, Dany pulled the sheet over her naked shoulder, though the air was already too hot and stifling. Even so, she shuddered and curled into a ball, forcing her eyes shut.

Sleep eluded her, however, as the weight of phantom red eyes kept her awake until dawn.

* * *

He returned the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Every time, he would lurk in the corner, watching her from afar, and every night, she would startle awake to scatter the dream remnants of him.

Until one time, she didn’t. Not immediately.

She opened her eyes, knowing he was there. She watched him watching her and steadied her breaths. _In, out_. Slowly, she let her heart rate recede, and with it, the fear. As if he could sense her acceptance, he approached. One step, then another, until he emerged fully from his tomb of shadows.

In the light, he was perfection. His eyes were a sable brown, not red, his hair raven black. His lips were full and pink—not so much cruel as sad, she realized.

And he was naked.

Finely chiseled muscles from shoulders to chest to stomach, a tapered waist that sloped into strong, toned legs. And between those powerful thighs hung his heavy cock and balls, pillowed in a downy thatch of midnight black. He’d been shaped by the gods—or the hungry imagination of a lonely woman.

She lifted her eyes to his. Now it was arousal, not fear, that made her heart drum against her rib cage. She felt it in her breast, in her neck, between her thighs.

Slowly, she sat up. “You’ve returned,” she whispered, mindful of waking Daario. But as soon as she thought it, she knew he wasn’t there. When she looked to her right, she found the space he normally occupied empty, the silk sheets pulled taut and undisturbed. She was alone in her bed, with her shadowed lover, who was no longer hidden in the shadows.

“I never left.” His voice was a low, soothing roll of thunder. He had a thick burr that clung to his tongue, heavily accenting his words though he spoke in the Common Tongue. That surprised her. Most people here spoke Valyrian, yet he sounded as if he hailed from Westeros. To her ears, he sounded like Jorah. Did she miss her Old Bear so much, even knowing his treachery, that she’d dreamt up this man before her now?

But, no, this man was young and handsome, his body lithe and nearly hairless, nothing like Jorah. And he was beautiful in a way Daario wasn’t. There was something otherworldly in the way he looked, the way he moved. Something immutable.

Dany drew her knees to her chest, suddenly shy about her naked state. “What do you want, then?” she asked boldly, holding her chin up.

He moved closer. The bed dipped with the weight of his knee. “Something only you can give me, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

Of course, she thought with some disappointment. They always wanted something from her. Her name, her body, her dragons. Her life.

Her breaths came quicker as he crawled toward her. When he reached for her bare ankles, she didn’t resist, letting him pull her legs away from her chest. On instinct, Dany lay back. Heart pounding, she closed her eyes and held her breath when she felt his hand on her knee. He moved in between the triangle of her legs, hovering above her. His fingers left a trail of fire on her skin, igniting her from within, as he moved his hand up her thigh to her hip, over the divots of her ribs. When he cupped her breast in his hand, she arched toward him, releasing her breath in a sigh.

As he fondled her breast, her body responded eagerly, nipples pebbling into hard little points. Her cunt throbbed, already soaked from this one simple touch. He stroked her lightly, fingertips petting one breast then the other until she squirmed and pulsed with heavy need.

“Please—” She bit off her plea, teeth sinking into her lip. She refused to beg. His hand halted its attentions, and she felt his hot breath on her face. Felt the unyielding strength of his thighs holding hers apart.

“Look at me,” he purred. She was too scared to open her eyes—too scared to see him up close, too scared to open her eyes and find him gone again before he could finish what his hands promised. He cupped her jaw. “I won’t leave you this time.”

Cautiously, Dany cracked her eyes open, then lifted her chin to meet his dark gaze. He smiled and dragged his hand down her neck, pressing his fingertips into her throat where her pulse jumped wildly, like a panicked bird thrashing to escape its cage, before he trailed them down to her breast again.

She was unprepared for the rough pinch of his fingers on her nipple. A startled cry tore from her lips as he tugged and twisted, and he seized her open mouth in a kiss, stroking his tongue into her mouth.

He tasted of winter. Of warm spiced ale and the ash of campfires. With trembling lips, she kissed him in turn, pushing her tongue against his, through the sharp cage of his teeth and into the deep cave of his mouth. Strange—she’d never seen snow, yet kissing him made her think of catching snowflakes on her tongue.

She reached for him, finally, raking her nails down his back, cutting furrows into firm male flesh. His lips curled against hers, his breath of surprised amusement like wine on her tongue. His reaction made her hungrier, slicker where she ached for him.

She grasped at his arse, pulling him to her. “Now,” she demanded, panting against his mouth.

“You do not command me,” he murmured, teeth digging into the plump flesh of her bottom lip. She winced, belly quivering with want. Pressing upward, she gasped when the rough hair of his pelvis serrated her delicate skin.

“ _Qogralbar nyke._ ” She reached between them for his cock, but he snatched her hand before she could touch him. Angrily, he grabbed her other hand and pinned them both to the bed.

“ _Gaomā daor udrāzma nyke,_ ” he growled and squeezed her wrists hard. She let out a cry of pain, frozen beneath him until he captured her lips again, brutalizing her mouth with his rough, demanding kisses. Mercifully, he released her hands as he settled his weight between her legs.

Hands now free, Dany meant to push him away, to slap him for his maltreatment; instead, she grabbed his face, his silken hair—pawing, petting, keening into his mouth.

She was inflamed, her blood boiling just beneath the surface of her skin. She wanted him, she wanted him unlike any other man. Sweat beaded on her belly, between her breasts, under her arms and between her legs, where she was already sopping wet for him.

Her lover dropped his mouth to her breasts to suck at the tender tips, mouthing and biting. “Please,” she moaned, hitching her knees up around his waist, shameless in her want for him. “Don’t deny me, not this time.”

“ _Dōrī arlī_ ,” he whispered against her breast. She felt his fingers spread her open, her cunt blossoming pink and wet to welcome him, but when he thrust inside her, his cock was as cold as ice. She choked back a scream at the unexpected invasion, the breath momentarily squeezed from her lungs. Despite the uncomfortable girth of his cock, he moved inside her easily, her channel so wet she could hear the slick, savage sounds of their coupling. His cock seemed to suck the warmth from her womb, and a coldness crept through her belly, up through her breast, and into her heart.

But there was pleasure, too. Mindless, numbing pleasure as he fucked her. His cock drove into the tight, plump tunnel of her cunt, stretching her, until she arched into him, spreading her legs for him like she were nothing but his whore to be used and filled and discarded.

He panted against her neck, his breaths echoing louder until he was grunting like a great big beast, filthy sounds and oaths flowing off his tongue. He grabbed her hips and held her down, rutting into her with relentless abandon now, his head bowed over her breasts.

Dany writhed beneath him, fighting against him to meet each thrust of his cock, swearing at him in Valyrian and Dothraki, until she felt the heat of her release upon her. Her womb contracted as pleasure gripped her, rolling through her like a slow-moving tide to drown her beneath the waves. She trembled, her heart pounding hard in her throat and ears—a strong, steady _whoosh whoosh whoosh._ Her lover didn’t stop, pushing into her hard, his cock hot in the grip of her cunt.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted when she felt his cock thicken and pulse like his beating heart laid bare inside her.

Suddenly, her lover notched his hips against hers and shoved his cock deep to spill his seed. Throwing his head back, he let out a great, bellowing howl, a roar so chilling, Dany opened her eyes to look at him. Above her was no longer a man but a ghostly wolf, so large his fangs were as long as her fingers.

With a strangled scream, Dany shot up in her bed, struggling in the web of sheets. Desperately, she gulped for air, heart racing erratically. Her whole body shook, legs jerking uncontrollably as the dimming twinges of pleasure rippled through her womb. It took her entirely too long to realize she was alone.

Her shadowed lover was not there. It was only a dream.

Inexplicably distraught, Dany lay down on her pillow, staring wide-eyed at the stone ceiling above as she caught her breath. She shifted restlessly and felt the stickiness of her arousal between her legs. But then she felt the wetness underneath her cheeks, soaking the silk sheet. Bewildered, Dany reached between her thighs. Fingers slipped all too easily between her wet nether lips, still plump with sex. Curiously, she pushed her fingers inside her cunt, wondering at the tenderness of her flesh, the soreness in her inner muscles that flexed around her. When she withdrew her hand to inspect it, she noticed the milky fluid coating her fingers, so unlike the clear tackiness of her own body’s honeyed nectar. Her breath caught at the sight of faint bruises on her wrist. They were shaped like finger prints.

Her heart fluttered against her breast, an icy awareness taking shape in her belly. Disturbed, she rolled onto her side and pushed it aside, like the strange dream it’d always been.

* * *

Dany first noticed when she was alone in the Dothraki Sea, abandoned by Drogon.

She was lightheaded and ill, beleaguered by a nagging exhaustion. But she was also hungry and lost and hunted, so she’d simply assumed it was the effects of her dire circumstances. Perhaps she should have been more suspicious when she didn’t get her moon blood as expected.

When she’d returned to Meereen and still had not bled, she was afraid. Yet, she couldn’t deny the kernel of hope taking root. A reckless folly for someone cursed as herself. But when she lay down at night, she could’ve sworn her heart beat twice as hard as it had before.

Her belly grew. At first, only she could tell, mapping the imperceptible swell of it with her hand once her gowns and leathers were removed for the night. But soon Missandei was keen to her changing state as well, as she was the one dressing Dany in the morning and unlacing her at night. Dany dutifully ignored her friend’s inquisitive glances and eventually preferred to dress herself, wishing to avoid the inevitable questions she had no real answers to. But the light gowns of Meereen did little to disguise what was quickly becoming obvious to everyone.

The Dragon Queen was with child.

With Meereen secured, the slaver masters banished, her army acquired and three grown dragons at her back, there was no better time for Dany to sail for Westeros. Daario did not take kindly to her dismissal of his professional—and personal—services. She felt only pity and a mild irritation as he raged at her.

“What about our child? You mean to take him away from his father?” he sneered. It was the first time he’d ever acknowledged it.

She eyed him coolly. “Have no fear, Daario. It’s not yours.”

He scoffed out a laugh. “You lie. I’m the only one who’s been in your bed.”

Dany swallowed, lifting her chin so he would not see it tremble. “You don’t know what I do when you’re not around.”

His face went white, and he jerked back as if she’d slapped him. It probably would have hurt him less if she had. Without another word, he spit at her feet and whirled around, marching away.

After Daario had gone, Tyrion entered her chambers. He offered her a glass of wine, but she refused, too queasy to hold even that down.

Tyrion sipped his wine as he sat on the steps with her. “How did he take the news?” he pried gently. She gave him a wry smile.

“As well as expected, I suppose.”

“And you?”

She dropped her gaze. “I just hurt someone I thought I cared about, and yet—I felt nothing.” Absently, she pressed a hand to her belly. Tyrion eyed her askance and cleared his throat, his mouth pulling down into a frown.

“Forgive the indelicacy of my question, but, ah...Since you presume to sit on the Iron Throne and rule the Seven Kingdoms, how do you plan to explain to your people that you’re unwed and pregnant? With a foreign babe, at that.” She went still, but Tyrion hurried on, “Don’t misunderstand me, your grace. I admire your...forward-thinking. Establishing an heir the moment you seize the crown, that’s clever indeed. But...a bastard? Unfortunately, Westeros is still a bit more...regressive than Essos in matters such as this.”

“He won’t be a bastard,” Dany said. “He is mine. He will be a Targaryen.” Tyrion only frowned harder, so she turned to him, her face hard. “This child...is extraordinary, Lord Tyrion. A gift. It shouldn’t have been possible, and yet….If Westeros is to accept me as their queen, they will have to accept my child, as well. Do you understand?”

Tyrion sighed and tipped his head. “I understand, your grace. The others, however—the noble houses you wish to make your allies—might be harder to convince.”

* * *

It turned out to be not so difficult, after all, when one’s rival was Cersei Lannister. Houses Martell and Tyrell gladly joined House Greyjoy in allying with House Targaryen, not caring one whit about her growing belly and the bastard inside.

Once they learned that the illegitimate son of Eddard Stark was King in the North, Tyrion was almost giddy with the news. As honorable as the Starks were, a bastard couldn’t fault another bastard for the circumstances of his conception, he argued.

“I remember liking this Jon Snow,” Tyrion told his queen. “He seemed reasonable. Invite him here to Dragonstone and ask for his fealty.”

“Jon Snow,” Dany murmured, rolling the name on her tongue. _Snow_ , she thought, recalling the tingle of melting snowflakes on her tongue. She shuddered and warily agreed.

By the time the King in the North arrived on Dragonstone, Dany was heavy with child. No gowns or coats could disguise that fact. She wasn’t ashamed, however; she would greet this son of the Usurper’s dog proudly. After all, his father had served the very man who’d tried to murder her first child.

She sat upon her throne and waited, Missandei at the bottom of the steps ready to introduce her. Finally, her guards swung the tall, heavy doors inward, and Tyrion entered, two men following behind him. Shadows fell over them, and it was not until they stopped in the middle of the throne room could she see them clearly.

Her heart climbed into her throat as she stared at the King in the North, his face lifted to hers. Full lips on a sad mouth, and those haunting brown eyes. She felt faint, barely hearing Missandei’s recitation of her titles. The King in the North didn’t appear to pay them any mind either, his eyes fixed on her.

Dany rose uneasily to her feet, her belly unbalancing her. Tyrion looked at her in concern and surprise as she lurched down the steps.

“Your grace,” he admonished when her boots hit the stone floor. Dany jerked to a stop only feet away from the King in the North. Jon Snow.

It was him. Her shadowed lover.

“I know you." Her accusation was barely a whisper.

He stared at her blankly and blinked. Then, slowly, a cruel, knowing smirk bloomed across his face.

“It’s good to see you again, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.” His eyes dropped to her full belly. “Tell me, my queen, how is our child doing?”

**Author's Note:**

> Valyrian translations:  
> Qogralbar nyke = Fuck me  
> Gaomā daor udrāzma nyke = You do not command me  
> Dōrī arlī = Never again
> 
> Why Jon as an incubus? When I was brainstorming something to write for Halloween, I was reading about incubi (incubuses?) on Wikipedia and saw that an incubus "may be identified by its unnaturally large or cold penis." Which reminded me of Dany's dream in A Dance With Dragons: "Beneath her coverlets she tossed and turned, dreaming that Hizdahr was kissing her … but his lips were blue and bruised, and when he thrust himself inside her, his manhood was cold as ice." Just thought it was a funny little coincidence so I ran with it.


End file.
